A Thousand Cranes
by aliceann
Summary: It's been a year since Neal's death, but Peter is still seeing him. He has a feeling he can't shake. He goes to Madison Square to visit Mozzie, hoping for some kind of closure. What happens next changes all their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**A THOUSAND CRANES**

"Peter, good to see you again. It's been a while. What brings you in today?"

"I don't really know. You said the door was always open."

"Yes, I did."

"Actually, I've been okay."

"You're a father now, right?"

"Yes, I have a son. I never thought I could love someone as much. I'm the luckiest man. Elizabeth is the most incredible mother, when I see her and Neal…."

"Neal?"

"Yeah. We named our boy after him. Thing is, Dr. Leslie… I've been seeing Neal. Like I did right after he died. It's been a year, seems like yesterday. I can't shake it."

"You know Peter, it's not uncommon what you're feeling. Many people on the anniversary of a loved one's death have a renewed sense of grief."

"I'm familiar with anniversary reactions, we got counseled on it by the Bureau. This feels different."

"Go on."

"I went past Madison Square Park today, where Mozzie has an occasional game of Three card Monte. I followed him for months after Neal died. I was hoping he would lead me to a clue. Something I missed, something that he and Neal were working on."

"Why?"

"I thought if I knew what they were planning. I could have gotten ahead of it, you know. I could have been there. I could have stopped whatever Neal was up to. I could… I could have…"

"You could have saved him?"

"Yeah," Peter ran his hand through his hair.

"Did you find anything, following Mozzie?"

"No. Most nights he would go to June's and just stand outside across the street looking up at Neal's window. June kept Neal's apartment just like he left it. Some nights the light would come on. I guess she visited from time to time. Like the rest of us, she hoped he might just walk in one night."

"So, Mozzie had no clues to offer then."

"Mozzie wouldn't come to the funeral. He was so angry. I worried about him. He blamed the Bureau for Neal's death. He filed a suit charging them with reckless endangerment and wrongful death."

"So he blamed you, as well."

"Not any more than I blamed myself. He had a point. If the Bureau hadn't reneged on their promise… today Neal's original deal would have been satisfied. He would have been a free man."

"You said you went by the park today, where Mozzie goes. Do you still follow him?"

"From time to time. I check up on him mostly, he's not aware of it. It's mainly a ritual now, a reminder. Neal would have wanted that."

"So how is Mozzie doing now?"

"Better I think. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, called me Peter. He seems to be starting to accept it. He said he moved from denial to depression. You'd be proud of him. He showed me this card Neal left with him that day, the queen of hearts. Neal played him with it on their first meeting, right on that very spot in the park. It's when they became partners and friends."

"It seems, Neal had a way of turning adversity into advantage and adversaries into friends," Dr. Leslie smiled as he looked over at Peter.

"That he did, he could charm a rock. Mozzie wasn't always the best influence but he was devoted to Neal, he loved him… of that I'm certain."

"He said for the longest time he thought Neal had left the card for him as some kind of clue. He thought Neal knew he was going to die and that it was a final con. He couldn't believe Neal was really gone, it had to be a con. But even Mozzie's denial and conspiracy theories were no match for seeing Neal in that body bag. Seeing him like that…" A shiver ran through Peter. He fell silent. He had to stop talking.

"Peter? Where are you?"

"I invited Mozzie to come and visit Elizabeth and see the boy. I think he might do it this time. He seemed changed, I can't quite put my finger on it."

"So Peter, what do you think this visit is about?"

"When I was chasing Neal he would send me these letters, notes… sometimes sketches. The cranes, I think were my favorites."

"I remember you said Neal communicated with you, even after you caught him…even in prison. I don't remember you talking about cranes."

"They were beautiful. Art pieces really, origami cranes. I think he sent them when he didn't have the time to write, probably when we were close on his heels. I have boxes of them. I'd come home at the end of the day and find one sitting on the table. "

"I could always tell in my gut when we were close, gaining on him. Then just like clockwork a crane would appear. The cheeky bastard. It was his way of letting me know he was a step ahead. It was the happiest part of my day."

"How so?"

"In part it was the game. The thrill of the chase. But in another way it was making a connection with another mind. You know, being able to anticipate someone so closely, to intuit them so completely. I was at my best. We were at our best."

"Why cranes?"

"I still don't know what it meant to him. I never asked him. Sometimes now, I'll go home expecting to find one, you know."

"The crane symbol is often associated with happiness and longevity in eastern mythology. It was thought they could live to be a thousand years old. Legend promises that if anyone folds a thousand origami cranes they will be granted a wish by a crane."

"God. I'd make a million to have one more chance to see him. There's so much I wanted to say to him… to tell him." A wave of heat crossed his chest and up into his throat and face, the tears he'd been holding back filled Peter's eyes. "I know it's crazy, but I feel he's still out there."

"So is that why you came in, to see if I think you're crazy?"

"Something like that. I guess I just need closure. He's gone. Isn't he?"

"I think you know the answer to that Peter."

"How do you let go? How do you do that?"

"You do the best you can. There's nothing more than that."

Peter nodded. He thought to himself _What if it's not the best I can do? What if?_

_**One Year Earlier**_

Neal woke up freezing, in the dark. He wanted to sit up, but he couldn't. He couldn't move a muscle, not even an eyelid. His heart was racing and his stomach felt like it was filled with ice. He was frozen. From somewhere in the darkness beyond he made out a vaguely familiar sound, maybe a travel kit closing, a suitcase? Then it hit him like a ton of bricks, someone was unzipping the body bag. He was in a plastic body bag. Panic took him momentarily, then followed with something not as simple as that.

He struggled to orient himself. It took a few moments but then things began to slide into place, links in his brain unfastened as he rose out of his drugged sleep. It was the toxin he took, the tetrodotoxin that held him immobilized. Was this consciousness? Was he awake?

He wasn't supposed to come out of it until much later. He was careful, meticulous in his planning. It wasn't time. He studied the physiology; the lowered heart rate, the decreased respirations, loss of consciousness and paralysis. He was prepared. What he wasn't prepared for is what happened next. A familiar voice… Peter, his voice deepened with grief, stunned with pain.

"Stop it, Mozzie. Just stop it. He's gone."

"No, no. He can't be gone."

"Mozzie, he's right there. You need to look at him. You got to look Mozzie. He's dead."

There was too much at stake now. He was prepared to lose everyone that mattered to him, if it meant they would be spared the cost of his freedom; but he wasn't prepared for this. Then it was Mozzie's voice, his denial shattering like glass.

"No, no. He can't be gone."

Neal wanted to cry out to them, _I'm here. I'm still here_. He couldn't. He wanted to say, _I'm sorry. Forgive me_. He couldn't. He wanted it to stop. It wouldn't.

"Mozzie, he's right there. You need to look at him. You've got to look Mozzie. He's dead."

"It can't be him, Peter. Neal always had it figured out. He could always get away."

"Not this time."

Neal felt as if he had been truly shot; sorrow, love went right through him as if had been lead. He could feel the blood drain from his heart. With unblinking eyes and tears frozen in grief, he whispered to himself.

"I'm still here."

He lay there awake. He lay there free. He lay there drowning.

**TBC**

_Author's Notes:_

_There have been some lovely stories already posted on the finale, but I couldn't help putting my two cents in. Not sure if people may have tired of these at this point, but in any case… would love to hear what you think so far. Should I keep going?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A Thousand Cranes**

**Chapter 2**

He stood by the window of his new apartment in the quiet peace before dawn, looking out over the Paris skyline. He expected a lot of Paris, maybe too much. He had paint under his nails, smudges of cerulean and yellow ochre stained his clothes. His dark hair had grown long, he pushed it back from his face. Neal walked over to the painting, leaned down and added a few tense strokes. As if one brush stroke could have changed one moment in time.

He was staring with a blind absorption for something he could not see. A truth that haunted him still.

The sun was just breaking, the lemon colored light filling his rooms. He would need to be to work soon. It was time to slip on his mask.

Victor Moreau was an impressive man. His credentials impeccable. He studied at the most prestigious art schools both in the states and abroad. Recruited right out of his graduate program to work in the elite Washington D.C. Art Crimes Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He made quite the reputation solving high profile cases, as well as being an accomplished art restoration specialist. A sly smile crossed his face, Diana Berrigan schooled him well in building an air tight identity.

By seven he was at the Louvre. He was on his second cup of coffee before most of the security day staff arrived. Uninterrupted, his thoughts traveled back to the day his plan took root.

Degas's _Mary Cassatt_ was a tour de force of printmaking, etching, aquapoint and drypoint. But above all, Degas was a master of portraiture. It literally stole his breath away each time he viewed it. This was his fourth viewing in as many days. You never see her face, you sense who she is by how and where Degas places her. For a moment he was so caught up in the sumptuous beauty, he almost forgot the job he came to do.

He sat on a bench a few feet away as the most perfect light filtered down through the massively ornate windows, his sketch book on his lap. The first of two men entered from the eastern pavilion. He'd seen them on two other occasions. He watched carefully as they separated. He stood and approached a guard a few feet away.

"I need to see your head of security. You're about to be robbed."

"Pardon, monsieur. What did you just say?"

"You're being robbed, as we speak."

"You are mistaken."

"There's one way to find out. Wait for it…."

The first alarm went off somewhere in the massive building. Moments later he was being ushered into the security offices of the Louvre, where Henri Corot head of security stood studying him.

"So, Mon….."

"Victor. Victor Moreau," Neal extended his hand. "I think this may help speed things up." He produced his FBI badge.

"Most interesting. Art Crimes. How convenient that an expert from the FBI would be visiting at the moment a crime is being committed."

"The habits of caution run deep in our profession. I understand," Neal smiled un-phased. "But in a moment another alarm will go off. Then another and another."

An exactly as predicted the next alarm sounded. A large panel of video screens behind them began to light up.

"Impossible. The system must be malfunctioning, it is impossible for anyone to strike in so many locations at the same time."

"Exactly. That would be your inclination, a malfunction. May I?" Neal moved forward to the panel with Corot's approval. "The Atlas 40050, state of the art security system."

"Yes, we recently had it upgraded." Three more alarms went off as more guards were dispatched to the offending sounds. Corot turned to his assistant.

"Turn off the system and reboot."

"That is exactly what the thieves want you to do," Neal looked up at Corot who was on the verge of panic. "I've seen a variation of this strategy. It will take the system exactly 90 seconds to reboot. In that period of time your museum is completely vulnerable. Precisely what your thieves want. If you remember, the 1992 Vermeer heist took all of sixty seconds to complete."

"What do you suggest?" Corot said anxiously.

"Give them what they want."

"Pardon?"

"The Atlas 40050 upgrade has an override feature that allows programming while it is still online. Yes?"

"Yes."

"While in override it will look for all intents and purposes, as if the system has been shut down."

"Ah, but it will be still activated." Corot could see Moreau's expression register approval.

"Exactly. The thieves will think it has been shut down, once the alarms stop. However, when they strike their target the alarm will trigger and take you right to them," Neal smiled.

With the new programming in place Corot gave the order shutting down the system. And one by one, all the alarms came to a halt. The silence was deafening. Thirty seconds passed, forty and then at the 60 second mark an alarm sounded with a corresponding blinking light on the video screen.

"There," Neal pointed to the Egyptian Antiquities exhibit. There Monsieur Corot is where you should find your thieves."

Security took off in hot pursuit. Unfortunately the thieves were not apprehended, managing to escape before executing their plan. Half an hour later, once the appropriate reports had been filed, Henri Corot returned to the small office where he asked Victor Moreau to wait for him. It would be weeks of detailed investigations before this case was closed, but for the moment he was grateful the museum had been spared.

"We are in your debt, Monsieur Moreau. If there is anyway that we can repay you."

"Please, call me Victor. Actually, there may be a way. I was here to apply for the art restoration position you have advertised."

"You'll have to excuse me, but I took the liberty of running your information. I'm curious why someone with your credentials would walk away? And to take an entry level position. Even if it is at the Louvre."

"I expected no less from you. I would have done the same in your position. I needed a break."

"I was a threat to my supervisor's career, Phillip Kramer Chief of D.C. Art Crimes Division. He spent a great deal of time making sure no one took it away. And he didn't like me, probably because of my reputation for taking chances, not waiting for written approval."

"There was nowhere for me to go. I left, it was a mutual decision. I'm sure you've already read the glowing references he gave me."

"Yes, quite impressive."

"I've wanted to return to painting. So I came to Paris in search of my muse."

"Mary Cassatt? She is lovely. We have security footage." Corot nodded toward the video screen and image of Neal sitting in front of the Cassatt portrait. "You have been here four days in a row sketching her."

"One more question, if you don't mind. What tipped you off to the robbery?"

"Fast forward the security video to today. There, you see the two men enter. They keep their heads down, faces turned at an angle where the security camera cannot get a clear image. However, more importantly. They never look at one sculpture, not one painting. They pass her without the smallest glance," he gestures to the Degas work. "Anyone who would ignore such beauty could only be a criminal."

Corot laughed for the first time that day. "The job is yours, with one condition. You also consult for security."

"Merci. I have one condition, as well." Neal said.

"Done."

Victor Moreau was given a space to paint in the Degas collection, where the afternoon light was perfect.

Later as he left the Louvre, a text came through on the burner phone he purchased that morning. _Went like clockwork. Payment received. Nice working with you. _

It was done. He tossed the phone into the blue water of the Seine. Neal Caffrey was no more. Victor Moreau walked along the Pont des Arts, his body in step with the rhythms of his new home, but his heartbeat would always be in New York City.

**Wcwcwc**

De Gaulle Airport seemed much smaller and a lot nosier than he remembered it. The sounds amplified the nerves he was already feeling. He hurriedly picked up his bags and took a taxi to the small hotel just up the street from the Louvre museum. Peter stopped to catch his breath. It still felt unreal to him, the idea that Neal was alive, that at any moment he could possibly run into him on the city streets of Paris. He wanted to unpack, but left it for later; a sudden hopefulness washing over him.

The museum steps were covered with people taking photographs, resting their feet. It was a cool morning, but spring like in the sun. He threaded his way through the crowd and up the stairs of the grand palace. At the information desk, he asked if the Degas collection was all in one place. It was. The exhibit was mainly confined to four rooms on the next level.

The first room housed the little ballerinas, while the second was dominated by a wall of Degas's dancers. Dancers filled another room, but beyond the dancers was a smaller room, where a crowd had gathered.

An elderly couple speaking in Italian, a group of tourists and what appeared to be students pointing to a painting in progress in low voices. Peter blended into the shifting circle of people who had gathered. After a moment the artist leaned closer to the painting, studying something; his long dark hair barely grazing his shoulder. He turned to take in the texture of the paint, where the sunlight hit it.

Then he was there, across from him. Neal. It was Neal. Peter's heart jumped ridiculously in his chest. He wavered for the briefest moment, his legs threatening to give out, when he felt a hand on his elbow.

"Monsieur, can I help you? Are you well?" a young security guard asked him.

"Thank you, I'm fine. Just a bit of jet lag." Mercifully there was a bench nearby, where he could sit. "What's going on?" Peter nodded toward the growing crowd.

"Ah, Monsieur Moreau. They come to see Victoir paint. He takes his lunch hour to work here. He says the afternoon light is the most perfect he's ever found."

"How long has Mr. Moreau been with you?" Peter asked softly.

"Not very long, three months perhaps. He does restoration work for the museum mainly and also consults with our security officer. He helped to thwart a major robbery and it was all the talk. The museum was so impressed they offered him a job, on the spot. It is said that Victoir's one condition, would be that he have a space to paint here. His work is magnificent. No?"

"Yes." Conscious only of his heart beating, Peter watched the painting come to life under Neal's hand. It was Kate. He recognized her immediately, slender and strong. She was smiling, her eyes shining …filled with love for him. She wore a grand blue dress from a bygone era. Her expression caught so brilliantly, it was as if she was about to move…to laugh.

Neal half turned as if he felt his gaze, but then went back to his painting oblivious of the crowd. Peter had half forgotten how striking he was, how graceful and strong. There was such a look of joy on his face as he worked.

It would be so easy to walk over to him, interrupt this new life he had made. He wanted to hear his voice again, reassuring, confident and warm. Peter's hands trembled slightly. _Is that what I should do? Am I doing this for Neal? _He rose to his feet.

"Monsieur, will you be okay?"

He went quickly down the steps without looking back and walked as far and as fast as he could until he could breathe again. He sat down on the first empty bench he could find and reached for his cell phone.

"Diana."

"Peter, is that you?"

"I need a favor, Di."

"Anything."

"I need everything you can find on Victor Moreau."

**TBC**

_**Author's Notes**_

Thank you so much for all the encouragement to keep going. What are your thoughts so far? Should have the next chapter up soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Thousand Cranes**

**Chapter 3**

As it turned out, Victor Moreau was a model citizen. He worked long days at the museum and often well into the night. Most weekends he could be found volunteering at a local shelter for adolescent runaways. Importantly, he had been instrumental in helping to detect and prevent several significant security threats to the Louvre, and loaned his expertise to other Paris art museums.

Diana's intelligence revealed no information of criminal activity of any kind associated with Victor Moreau. The day was almost over and Peter hadn't unpacked his bags yet. He had to decide what to say to him. _Why didn't you tell me? _ It was the one question he couldn't get out of his head. The man he knew didn't know how to be cruel. Now he wondered if he really knew him at all.

Victor Moreau's apartment was on a picturesque street in Montmartre. Peter stood for a few minutes looking up at the small wrought iron balcony on the second floor, before heading up the steep stairs. _ Was he ready for this? _He knocked, there was no answer. Reflexively, he turned the knob. His door was open, to his relief, so that he did not have the sense of breaking and entering.

There were paintings everywhere, crowded into every space. It was astonishing. They were riveting, nearly life sized. Nothing like anything he had ever seen Neal create before. He tried to imagine Neal standing before them painting. Peter's eyes fell on one canvas in particular, the paint was still fresh. It was a picture of a man, holding the body of a younger man in his arms, grieving over him. He had to catch his breath. It was them.

The tremendous sculptural quality of the figures was astounding. The beauty of it was totally unexpected. Peter knew he was looking at work, which would last in importance long after they were gone. It was completely alive. The compassion, the grief in those images was disorienting. He stepped back from the canvas and sat down on a nearby sofa.

He sat there a long time, staring at it. The man who painted this understood grief in a way that only one who suffered that specific misery could. _How? How could he have done what he did? _

Suddenly he was exhausted to the center of his soul. He rested his head on the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. When he opened them finally, they came to rest on the delicate white crane sitting atop the table next to him. He turned it over lovingly, possessively, and was immediately flooded with memories of the past.

A small heap of handwritten letters sat next to it, he recognized the loop of Neal's hand. They were all addressed to him. Unmarked postal stamps from Amsterdam, London, Cairo… adorned them. Peter felt several things at once. Elation Neal was thinking of him all this time, sadness they were never sent and anxiety about what they revealed_. Did Neal want him to read them? Did he want to read them?_

Across the room, the door opened.

"You found me," Neal walked into the apartment.

"Old habits die hard." Peter stood, but made no effort to reach out to Neal. "You look well… for a dead man." All the words came out hard. He hadn't meant them to be.

"Peter. I never…."

"Stop. Just stop." He cut off the words Neal seemed desperate to say. He was unwilling to hear him out. Afraid he would give in and forget. He couldn't accept a lie, not now. And he was afraid of the truth…that it had all been a con and he should go home.

Peter looked at Neal. "I saw you today at the Louvre. You seemed so happy."

Neal froze for a moment.

"Peter. You have to understand. I couldn't tell you."

"People die. I get it. You needed to escape," Peter said. "Anyone could understand that, especially me, after everything that happened."

"Do you?" Neal moved closer to him.

"But you didn't trust me. After everything we've been through. You didn't trust that I would have helped you."

"You're wrong. Your trust meant everything to me. It's why I couldn't ruin your life. If anyone thought you were responsible for helping me. It would have been a death sentence, not only for you but everyone you loved. I had to die. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do."

"Jesus, Neal! Do you have any idea what it did to Mozzie… to June?"

"You have to believe me. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did. I went to your funeral, Neal." Peter's voice was low and traumatized. He looked into Neal's eyes. "Something came apart in me. I thought it was unfixable. I saw you everywhere. I'd walk into the office and smell the coffee you always brought us. You were right there in front of me."

"Please, Peter," Neal whispered, staggering back from him.

"You weren't gone. It was like some kind of dream. But it wasn't a dream, was it? All that time you were right here. Was it worth it?"

"Do you think I wanted that? Do you think erasing my past, erasing everything and everyone I loved is what I wanted?" Neal buried his face in his hands, his voice choked with tears.

Peter moved forward he felt his defenses weaken and fall behind him. The willingness to withdraw from his anger and hurt washing over him.

"Don't," Neal wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He knew he would break down completely if Peter touched him.

"Fate's a funny thing. All my life I've been on the run, even when I didn't know I was running. Speeding up, slowing down, but never stopping, never really resting…never having a place to call home…until I met you. You gave that to me, Peter. It meant everything to me."

"You made a difference, Neal. It was your decision, your choice."

"Yeah, but it was passing out of my hands, out of our hands. I couldn't let fate happen to me again, not this time. So I dared it, and I won."

"I didn't care what the cost was." He walked over to the painting and stood before it. "Not until that day…that moment. I'm so sorry, Peter."

"I don't understand."

"It was months before I could stop hearing your voice, in the morgue."

"What?" Peter's face drained of all color.

"I could hear you that day in the morgue. You and Moz. The poison I took… it was supposed to make me unconscious, something went wrong and I woke up too soon. I couldn't move. All I could do was lay there and listen to you."

"Oh, Neal. I didn't know." Peter hadn't realized what the secret cost him until that moment, when he saw the agonized look in Neal's eyes. He felt such raw sympathy.

"I can still hear you at times. I would change every second of that moment, if I could. But I can't. I was lost. Some mornings when I woke up I didn't know what city I was in. I found myself here. Paris. It was a place I was happy once, Kate and I came here whenever we could. I started to paint, I got a job. Painting saved me, it was salvation." He touched the canvas gently.

"Neal," Peter said softly.

"I thought if I could capture that moment," Neal strained for the words, tears burning his eyes. "You know, maybe. Maybe, I could make something meaningful out of all that ruin, create a truth. Live up to the good you saw in me."

"What you did. It's beautiful Neal."

"I'll understand if you can't forgive me. If you're here to take me back."

"God. No. Do you really think that's why I'm here?"

"Why are you here, Peter?"

"I'm here, because you're my best friend." He walked over to Neal and embraced him, "and I miss you."

"I miss you too," Neal wrapped his arms around Peter. They held each other for the longest time, like two men who had been buried and brought back to life. After some time passed, Peter was the first to break the silence.

"I'm glad you're happy. You are happy, right?" Peter said as he blew his nose.

"But if you ever decide to fake your death again, it better damn sure not be without me."

Neal traced an X across his chest, "Cross my heart and hope to…"

"Hah, hah. Very funny."

"What? Too soon?" Neal shrugged, his face all innocence. They both laughed through their tears.

It was late now, almost dusk. The Paris sky was tremendous as blue faded into purple and a soft breeze stirred the curtains lining the doors of the balcony.

"What now?" Peter asked.

"Would you like a drink? Neal grinned, "An old friend brought by a bottle of Cab Franc 93."

"Make mine a double," Peter laughed.

"Well it's probably unwise to drink on an empty stomach. I could cook something, if you want."

"That sounds great. I'm starving."

"Okay, then. Sorry, but I don't own a TV, no cable ESPN. Can I get you a book, a magazine?"

"I'd like to read these if that's okay?" Peter nodded to the stack of letters on the nearby table.

"I'd like that," Neal smiled as he busied himself in the small kitchen, the sounds of pot and pans rattling. He couldn't have wished for a better moment.

_Dear Peter, the letter began_

_ Legend has it that if you make a thousand origami cranes…a crane will grant you a wish. I wish…_

_**Fin**_

**Author's Notes**

_Thank you so much for all your lovely comments, it meant a great deal to me. If you enjoyed this final chapter, please consider leaving a review. It really is the only way we writers know if we've told a story that connected with you._


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